The Meaning of Adventure
by Do-Op
Summary: Mrs. Paul Grover reflects on her husband, and the tragedy that took him from her.


Title: The Next Great Adventure

Rating: PG

Author: Ruth Wilson 

Summary: Mrs. Paul Grover reflects on  her husband, and the tragedy that took him from her.

Authors Notes: This is a one-shot, obscure character fic. I don't know if it will ever become a  chaptered story. Much love to Elysia_Snape, my beautiful beta, who helped me make this worth your time.

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Why do they call it the next great adventure? 

What does this mean exactly?

It's not an adventure. It's nothing. It's a horrible way to try and brighten up the darkest inevitable.

Why couldn't I have gone with him?  Why wasn't I there?  How come I didn't notice?

I suppose that's what hurts worse. I mean, aren't you supposed to just _know_ in those situations? 

I was giggling when it happened – can you imagine a time when we were free to do that? 

I had finally taken leave, eight months in.  Paul had wanted me to stay at home after the second trimester, we'd fought about it, and he'd thought I was taking on too much.  

I had to admit it was a relief to walk around in pajamas.  I had called one of my friends, Stacy, I hadn't seen her in a while, and we were watching the newest comedy flick from the States.  The show was funny, can't remember any of it now, Stacy and I were mostly talking over it anyhow.  

The doorbell rang. 

I didn't think anything odd of it, I don't suppose I should have.  I had my popcorn in my lap, so I just took it with me to the door.  Padding down the hallway, past the candy pink walls of my flat, so bubbly and bright, still laughing at something Stacy had said.  I can see myself in slow motion, calling something back over to her, shifting the bowl to my other hand so I could adjust the front of my dressing gown.  I wasn't even concerned that someone was at my door this late at night. 

Just a moment later, my popcorn littered the entryway.

_Mrs. Grover?_

The officer's tag read Muldoon.  My eyes flickered up to his face, I recognised his expression instantly.__

_Paul was found in __Yorkshire__ today… victim of a sewer explosion... I'm sorry….anything we can do…_

I remember breathing, and then not being able to.  Oddly, I wondered if he had a wife and children at home. Did he feel anything as he told me this?  His face was still somber and neutral.  I suspected he did as he reached out for my arm.  I was feeling sorry for him, how difficult it must be to come and tell someone that their loved one had been killed.

_Paul!  _

It sunk in moments after the initial telling.  I grasped my face and sank against the wall, shock, anger, and despair all hitting at once?  Stacy – that was my friend's name – came running when she heard the popcorn bowl clatter, and I think she grabbed me up and held me in her arms so I didn't hit the floor. It hurt so bad, like being slapped on the inside. My husband was gone, just gone, and I hadn't known. He'd been dying while I had been looking at maternity clothes and shuffling around the house. He'd been dead, possibly dying while I giggled and laughed. I hadn't known.

I went down to got to see the site a few weeks later, I felt I had to as a sort of closure. They'd had it closed off, fumes and everything from the explosion, but I went by the day it reopened. I felt like some sort of Juliet, waking to find that her Romeo had taken his fill of poison and left her living. I'm sure she thought death was no big adventure either.

_Oh, happy dagger! This is thy sheath!_

The line stuck in my head the entire time I was there, almost making me smile at the irony of it. I had no dagger, and probably wouldn't have used it even if I had. But the line seemed eerily fitting anyway, because, I couldn't do it alone. I need him to be here.  I need him to hold my hand when I come to term, to help me raise our son.  I need him to be here to remind me why I mustn't kill the boy when he's wild, and mustn't hold him too close when he longs to fly. I need him here to love me, because without Paul…without Paul…

I don't know what I am going to do with myself.

Maybe that's it.  My adventure.  An adventure doesn't have to be fun, after all. Sometimes they are frightening and laborious, sometime chilling and intricate. 

Maybe it's the next great adventure, because it forces you to redefine everything you've known. To survive without the supports that have held you up for so long.

And if that is to be my adventure, what is his?


End file.
